Fated Idyll
by A. M. Green
Summary: His brother in arms is now married to the elf maiden he has loved for decades; His sister will soon wed the captain of Gondor; And all Samwise Gamgee can speak of is his wish to ask for Rosie Cotton's hand. His uncle not even buried, he is advised to search for a queen. But Éomer has little interest in finding a woman to marry, until he slams into his new friend's daughter.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, this was a spur of the moment kind of thing. I started writing this tidbit that popped inside my head just before going to bed and never stopped until daylight came. It is a good thing I work the night shift tomorrow. I have no idea where this is going, or if it is even going anywhere. Of course if you want me to continue, I could be given incentives to write more about this story. If you have any ideas about where this might lead, don't be shy and send them my way. I am always happy to read your reviews and to reply back.**

 **Of course, I do not believe it needs to be said but for anyone in doubt, everything in this magical world belongs to the Master Tolkien. I just add superfluous and unnecessary details to a world and characters we all already love so deeply. Any names you do not recognize are my own. Are those characters mine? I believe so, even if Tolkien actually makes mention of them sometimes (like those unnamed wives). Yes, well. He just needed a baby incubator and I made them mine by giving them a name and personality.**

 **I do hope you enjoy this. If not, well then it is for my own entertainment.**

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 **His brother in arms is now married to the elf maiden he has loved for decades; His sister will soon wed the captain of Gondor; And all Samwise Gamgee can speak of is his wish to ask for Rosie Cotton's hand. His uncle not even buried, he is advised to search for a queen. But Eomer has little interest in finding a woman to marry, until he slams into his new friend's daughter.**

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Chapter One

She is slowly pushing her way through the mass of people, having long lost her family in this crowd so big the likes of which she has never seen before. She is not surprised by the sheer number of people in attendance; it is surreal yet to be expected. After many centuries of Stewards watching over the White City, the long wait for the true King of Gondor is ending. The realm enters into a new era, starting with the coronation of King Elessar Telcontar. And everybody is here to witness such an historical day. Only a fool would willingly miss this.

It all started like any other formal ceremony, only it slowly became a celebration of so much more. The people all revelled when the coronation turned into an impromptu wedding between their King and the beautiful Arwen Undómiel. Not only that, but they honoured four startled hobbits who showed valiant courage in order to protect them all and put an end to the dark reign of Sauron once and for all. Last but not least, the two new Kings of Men renewed an old oath, swearing everlasting friendship between Gondor and Rohan.

Hence here they all stand, barrels of wine and mead spilling open, music playing loudly, people singing and dancing on the many levels of Minas Tirith. That is where Lothíriel is, on the uppermost level of the city, right next to the white tree of Gondor, glass of wine in hand and trying to find someone she knows; Anyone really, whether it be one of her annoying brothers or a friend. Usually, she finds her height very helpful when it comes to looking over shoulders, especially considering that her family is extremely tall as well and easy to recognize, but in this moment it is far from beneficial. There are just too many people here, all in their best apparel. She has to keep looking down to make sure she does not trip on anything and spill her delicious wine.

She awkwardly slides through the inebriated bodies of Lords and Ladies who all slightly bow their head when they notice her. She nods back to each and every one of them, lest she disgraces her family's good name by not following the prim manners her mother instilled upon her at an early age, manners she sometimes wishes she could toss to the wind.

Lothíriel steps around a fallen couple giggling on the ground, clearly not caring about any bystander. At that moment, a wobbling young man steps backward on the skirt of her dress, preventing Lothíriel from moving forward and away from his stumbling form. Of course, he splatters to the ground, dragging her with him in his poor attempt to keep himself upright. Any effort on her part to keep her wine in its cup was for naught because on his way to kiss the marbled ground, the young man knocked over the content of both his glass and hers, and onto her light blue dress.

As it is, she is currently sitting on the ground, inspecting the damage done to her dress with a laughing intoxicated fool sprawled on her lap. His friends are of no help as they just guffaw at the sight of them. They slap their thighs and stomp their feet while one is clearly trying to catch his breath. Lothíriel jabs him in the ribs, trying to get him off her but he just falls over again and hilarity ensues.

Well not for her. She abhors vanity, but her beautiful dress is now ruined and nothing will take the stain out of it. "Please, get a hold of yourself, stand on your feet and let me up."

After struggling to find his footing still laughing like a deranged hyena, he finally manages to remain somewhat standing long enough to notice her. Amid the laughter she discerns a few words here in there that resemble an apology. She nods in a fake acceptance of his less than sincere apology and turns around on her heels, grabbing her skirt in hand lest someone else decides to use it as a carpet.

Leaving behind the babbling band of idiots, she hurries toward the few steps leading to the citadel where she supposes her family is. That would be the most logical place for them to be, being acquainted with the King. There are no less people inside the walls of the Great Hall of Feasts but they appear a little more civilized. Barely. She heads toward a banquet table to grab a new cup of wine.

"Lothíriel! There you are!" She turns around, a new drink in hand to see Faramir waving a hand her way. She takes a few steps toward him and sees his eyes leave her face to look at the state of her dress. "Oh no, what happened to you, my dear cousin?" He is barely able to contain his smirk.

"Oh, it's nothing really." She says sheepishly, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.

"Have you had too much to drink already?" Éowyn smirks not even trying to hide it.

"No, someone decided to get personal and get me on the floor." She adds before taking a sip of her much deserved wine.

"What?" The young lady of Rohan is clearly shocked by her answer, only to be even more astonished when Éowyn does not see outrage marring Faramir's face as she expected, but rather an arched eyebrow as he chuckles softly.

"Can you repeat that properly this time?" He knows Lothíriel so well.

"Allow me to rephrase that for you then. Gravity decided to work its pull on a young man who, in his drunken stupor fell on me and decided I should be wearing my wine instead of drinking it.

After a moment of silence, both Éowyn and Faramir start laughing at Lothíriel's expense and she lets them have their fun while she drinks her wine, all the while staring at them over the rim of her glass. Faramir is holding his own glass of wine in his left hand. Éowyn bends forward a little in her laughter. Her hand is on his forearm, his right hand coming over to rest upon her own. Lothíriel cannot help the tug at her lips.

She met Éowyn the day she arrived in Minas Tirith with her family. The moment they had received word in Dol Amroth that Sauron had been defeated, they all left eagerly their palace by the sea to make their way to the White City. It had been weeks since Lothíriel and her family had seen her father and her brothers as well as her cousin. It took them but a moment to all jump into action and prepare their week long journey. Her mother Uileth took whatever food she could bring with them that would not spoil; Her aunt Ivriniel took care of little Alphros and grabbed everything they could need to take care of a toddler; His mother Aradel, filled bags with gowns, tunics, cloaks, brushes and shoes; and Lothíriel prepared the horses.

The first person the family encountered when they reached the city was Faramir. He was looking off into the distance, leaning near the end of the rock ledge around which Minas Tirith is built. They would later learn that her uncle Denethor died jumping down from the edge of that towering bastion of stone. Upon seeing the family, Faramir's eyes which moments before held melancholy were now filled with happiness at being reunited with kin. He quickly informed them that the troops had not yet returned from Morannon, but news had reached him that none of their friends had been gravely wounded. When the family left to get settle in their guest quarters, Lothíriel remained with her cousin. They spoke while she held his hand, her own way of reassuring herself that despite his injuries, Faramir was going to be fine. She knew he was still gloomy and mournful, but still she held on.

And then, his stance changed. She looked at his eyes, although his attention was no longer on her, and she saw hope and awe. Lothíriel followed his eyes and saw a young golden haired woman. Her arm was wrapped as if she had sustained a fracture and her skin was unnaturally pale. Yet, her own eyes reflected those of Faramir as she glanced their way. Faramir sprung up on his feet, with Lothíriel's hand still in his, he led her to where the new comer stood.

He introduced them, explaining that Lothíriel was his cousin and instantly, she saw relief on Éowyn's face. They spent that afternoon getting acquainted, talking of nothing and everything. And Lothíriel knew. In that very moment she knew that a few hearts were going to be broken when people realised that the young captain of Gondor had set his eyes on the White Lady of Rohan, Shieldmaiden and the one who had killed the Witch-King of Angmar.

When the disarray had dispersed a little and people could see a little farther than their own jubilation at surviving this ordeal, it was not hard to notice that Éowyn held Faramir's heart, and he had hers in return. Indeed, a few maiden wailed in despair, much to Faramir's embarrassment. Lothíriel just stood in the background and snorted like a pig at his own mortification.

When the troops came back from the Black Gate, everybody welcomed them with euphoria. Men kissed their wives and mothers sobbed in their sons' arms. Aradel, with Alphros on her hip was quick to reach Elphir who barely had time to dismount his horse before being attacked by his wife and son. Uileth fussed over her sons and husband, looking for scratches and bruises. Lothíriel for one almost chocked to death all three of her brothers before latching onto her father who simply smiled indulgingly as he stroked her black hair gently.

While Lothíriel greeted her family with open arms, Faramir had some explaining to do of his own. When he later recounted the conversation he had with the new King of Rohan about his intentions regarding Éowyn, Lothíriel couldn't help but snicker at her cousin's expense. Having never met the man before, she could only imagine a stocky blond Rohirrim threatening to remove certain body parts from Faramir's person should harm ever befall his younger sister. The black haired woman knows her cousin is an adept fighter, so she could not understand why he seemed truly shaken by the man's warning. She knows when the time comes for her to accept a man as her husband, her brothers will take great pleasure in bullying her intended. But it is all in good fashion. Despite being formidable warriors, they wouldn't really act on their threats unless warranted. And Faramir can stand toe to toe with any of them, why not a Rohirrim? After thinking about it, she realises that maybe he does not fear the man so much as he fears his Kingship and all the Éoreds at his command. After all, should Faramir truly harm Éowyn, Lothíriel doubts the new King of Rohan will challenge her cousin face to face. All he would have to do is set his stampede of horse lords after her doomed cousin.

Yet, Faramir would never dare lift a finger to harm the woman he seems to love so immensely. Lothíriel loves her cousin, her only remaining cousin, and she wishes him all the joy in the world. He seems to have found it. That makes her glad.

"Ladies, you wait here. I will get you both another drink." Faramir raises both of the ladies' empty cups before walking away, Éowyn's gaze never leaving him.

"You two are sickening, are you aware of that?" Lothíriel grins at the blushing woman next to her, unable to resist teasing her.

"Don't start." Éowyn glares playfully at her friend, before quickly looking back at the man who had just left their company.

"Start what? It is not my fault you can barely look away from each other."

"You exaggerate." Éowyn's hand goes quickly to her hair, making sure her wild mane is still perfectly in place.

"Exaggerate! You wear your emotions on your sleeves. Any fool can see the two of you are counting down the days until your wedding night."

"Lothíriel!" Éowyn shrieks, looking around to see if anyone heard the younger woman's comment.

"What?" Lothíriel giggles madly loving the color red on her friend's cheeks. "Nobody is listening to us. They are far too drunk to care about what either of us has to say."

Éowyn angles her head a little as she stares at Lothíriel, a sort of understanding passes between the two of them. Éowyn must see in her what she had always seen in herself. The will to be more than what society wants for them. She wished to become a Shieldmaiden and fight for the freedom of men, and she seized her opportunity when it came. Never again will she go back to the way she was before. She may now be willing to settle down with a man she loved, but Faramir knows better than to try and contain her. And should he forget, she will simply remind him.

Lothíriel for one wants more in life than simple devoid-of-meaning conversations with elitists who only see her as the Prince of Dol Amroth's only daughter. Her father will never force her to marry anyone not of her choosing; neither will he stop admirers from requesting a walk with her in order to gain her favours. But Lothíriel wants more than that. Those... pretenders for her affection do not care about her, they only care that she is the highest ranking available lady in the entire realm.

The princess scuffs, annoyed at her own line of thoughts. Her friend steps forward and wraps her arms around Lothíriel, crushing her with a hug that pushes her sorrow away. Éowyn and Lothíriel, they could not look any more different than they currently do. Where one is golden sunlight, the other is the midnight sky; where Éowyn is short and sturdy, Lothíriel is uncommonly tall and slender. Despite their physical differences, they are soul-sisters in a way.

As she leans back a little, Éowyn lifts her head to stare right into the eyes of the taller woman. Éowyn's hand tucks a strand of black hair behind Lothíriel's ear with all the kindness of an older sister. "You will see. One day, you will understand."

"Pff..." is Lothíriel's disbelieving answer.

"What will she understand?" Faramir is back with three drinks in his hands. Éowyn quickly takes two cups and hands one over for Lothíriel to take.

"Men." That is Éowyn's simple answer, to which her friend simply rolls her eyes.

Faramir looks oddly at the both of them, "Do I even want to know?"

"No." The two women both answer at the same time, gulping on their respective wine. Faramir nods and raises his glass in a small salute to them before taking a sip of his own drink.

\- xXx -

Amidst all the festivities, Éomer keeps trying to evade his friends Éothain and Aragorn. A few days ago, when it was decided that they would all return to Edoras to officially entomb King Théoden in August, they insinuated that upon his return, some of the advisors in Meduseld might firmly encourage him to take a wife and that those very advisors might throw a few young ladies at his feet in encouragement, including their own daughters. It does not help that, despite warning him about his advisors' intent, both of them were clearly of the same mind. One now married and the other barely willing to wait for their return to Rohan to wed the woman he loves. The two want him to open his eyes for the maiden who will undoubtedly fall into his awaiting arms, if only he would allow it. Both of his friends meant well, he knows, but they could have chosen a better time to bring up the subject. His uncle was not even buried yet and already he had to worry about fending off maidens.

He has little wish for a wife at the moment, having just been thrust into Kingship. Éomer is no fool. He knew it was coming, he only wished it had not happened so fast. He, unlike Aragorn who admittedly only learned of his heritage when he turned twenty – nigh on _seventy years ago_ –, was not raised to become king. It was always supposed to be Théodred. _He_ was born and bred to be a magnificent king. Éomer only ever knew and aspired to be a Marshall of the Mark. And he excelled at that.

But when Théodred died, everything changed for Éomer. He knew he would eventually rule over Rohan even before the King named him his rightful heir. Still, Théoden was possessed and Éomer banished; then Helm's Deep happened; the Beacons were lit; the Rohirrim rode to Gondor; and his uncle perished. They never really spoke about it. Théoden never really had the time – or took the time – to bestow any advice upon his nephew. And Éomer never asked questions.

So here he is, at a loss really. But today, he does not want to think about it. Actually, he wants to forget it all. That is why, at his friend's coronation _and_ wedding, he is promptly avoiding him. After all, he still has two months before they ride to Edoras. He can ask for advice later on how not to ruin a kingdom.

After quickly downing the flimsy beverage those Gondorians so like to drink, Éomer goes in search of something stronger. On his way to the barrels of mead, he finds that the people tend to make a path for him everywhere he goes. In Rohan, he knows the people do so out of respect, yet in this place he does not know if they do so because he is now a king or if his stature simply foists deference. He is far more imposing than any Rohirrim; but here, a few men are as tall as him, only his built differs. Whereas men of Gondor rely on speed and agility, the men of Rohan are trained in strength and vigour; meaning Éomer is about twice as wide as any Gondorian.

Arriving at the table, he does not waste time in pouring himself a pint and taking a gulp out of it. Turning around he locates his sister smiling adoringly at Faramir. When he came back from battling the monsters behind the Black Gate of Mordor, the last thing he expected was to be approached by a man asking his permission to court his younger sister. After all, when he left her, she had been slowly recovering in the Houses of Healing, not flaunting herself about. He had seen Éowyn easily pine for the attention of men who did not deserve or warrant it. Had her affection not been ardently flung at Aragorn not so long ago?

Still, he listened to Faramir and what he had to say. And quite frankly, had he been any other man, Éomer would have probably refused Faramir's request. But he once knew Boromir when he had travelled across Rohan to reach Rivendell and admired him for his qualities. The elder son of the late Steward briefly spoke of his little brother who was apparently the best of him and yet more. For that reason, he decided to allow the courtship between Faramir and Éowyn. Having since learned a great deal more about the man, and just looking at the two of them across the room in this instant, Éomer does not regret his decision. And he hopes he never will.

He turns his glance looking for his new friend, Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth and his Swan Knights saved many lives on the fields of Pelennor that day and he fought valiantly alongside his men and his sons. He led them into battle, coming to the Rohirrim's aid just in time to overturn the tide against their enemy. And then of course, Aragorn arrived with his army of the Dead, a frightening yet welcomed sight. Fighting side by side, Éomer and Imrahil both earned each other's respect; even more so since the Prince is the one who perceived that Éowyn was still alive – cursed but alive – and brought her to the Houses of Healing.

Not seeing the middle-aged man anywhere, Éomer continues to roam the room and his gaze lands on another group, four Hobbits gathered together, sprawled on the floor, pints in hand and mirth in their eyes. He decides to slowly make his way to them. Their merriment in everything has always both astonished and fascinated him. Despite all they have endured for such a peaceful people, they still retain their light and joy to live.

"Ah, Éomer King!" Merry calls raising his pint in greetings to him. He cannot help but do the same with a genuine smile.

"Holdwine." This earns him a glorious smile from Merry who so loves the title awarded to him. "Pippin. Frodo. Sam. You are all enjoying the festivities I hope." Éomer might get a few looks thrown his way, but propriety be damned. He makes the split decision to join the Hobbits on the floor.

"Pints" Pippin says showing his drink. "Friends" he adds pointing at his fellow Hobbits and the King of Rohan. "Beautiful women!" he exclaims, moving his arm in an arc motioning to the countless women in attendance.

"And pipe weed?" Éomer asks knowing full well the love his little friends have for their pipe weed.

"Ah, we'll keep that for outside later tonight!" Merry laughs and Éomer joins softly, shaking his head unsurprised.

"So... Faramir and Lady Éowyn?" Pippin asks with a smirk.

"Apparently." Éomer does not say anything else for there is nothing to say. It is quite obvious to anyone with eyes what is really going on between the two.

"I have grown quite fond of him in my time here. He is a good man." Pippin adds, obviously trying to put weight in favour of the captain of Gondor.

"Why do you think he is within arm's reach of my sister?" They all chuckle at his response. "You have no need to vouch for your friend, Pippin. Had he proven himself less than worthy, Faramir would not be in the same room as my sister. That happened once with Grima, never again."

None of the Hobbits met Grima Wormtongue before his death, Merry and Pippin only caught a glimpse of the man. But they heard stories of the traitorous snake who snivelled his way inside Meduseld to poison the mind of the late King, hereby banishing Éomer and his Éoreds. They all shivered at the thought of such a man living in close proximity to the White Lady of Rohan, a woman whom they all admired, even Frodo and Sam who have only recently made her acquaintance.

He sighs. Here he is again, bringing gloom to an otherwise lively conversation. _Him and his thoughts_. "None of that now. This is a day for celebrations! Gondor has a new King and he married an Elleth of unimaginable beauty. The very same man I was once told you believed to be no more than a ruffian when you first encountered him." The four Hobbits look somewhat sheepish before laughing at the reminder. "What are your plans now that we have vanquished this evil? You will go back to the Shire, surely?"

"Oh yes, and when I step foot inside my home, I will do nothing for a month!" Merry cheers before joyfully taking a gulp of his mead.

"I hear you, Merry!" Pippin agrees with a clang of his pint against his cousin's.

"What of you Frodo?" Éomer looks to the little ring-bearer, the one who carried the Ring across Middle Earth to the fiery pits of Mount Doom.

"I do not have much planned. I wish to go back to Rivendell on our way to the Shire to see my uncle. And then, I wish for peace. I might even write a book."

"Like Bilbo did about his adventure with the Dwarves?" Merry inquires excited while Frodo acquiesce quietly.

"That would be quite the tale, Master Baggins." Éomer voices "but a tale worth telling."

"We shall see." Frodo adds softly. "Sam?"

They all turn to look at Sam Gamgee who is slowly turning every shades of red, until he takes a gulp of pint and affirms quite sternly that he will return to the Shire and marry a certain Rosie Cotton.

"I would love to see that." Pippin quips teasingly.

"Rosie Cotton?" Éomer asks reluctantly.

"She is the most beautiful Hobbit lass in all the Shire. She is fair and kind and I love her!" _Oh, another infatuated lovesick dolt,_ Éomer thinks to himself.

"Yes, and Sam here has been pining for her for years, never daring to say a word to her. And now you say you are going to march up to her the moment you see her and ask her to marry you? I want to be there when that happens!" Pippin laughs.

"I will! Mark my words, Peregrin Took. I will tell Rosie Cotton I have loved her for years! And I will ask her to marry me!"

"Good for you, Sam!" Merry cheers. "Admit it Pippin, you would not say no to a beautiful wife of your own. Nor would I."

"I guess not."

 _Why does everyone want to marry so suddenly_? Éomer cannot understand the marriage frenzy that seems to be spreading like weed; this craze that seems to affect so many of his peers. To bind yourself to another until death, to be absolutely certain of the choice in partner... it seems so unfathomable to him. He understands Aragorn and Arwen. They first met when he was twenty years of age and knew instantly and that faith never wavered in the sixty-seven years they have loved one another. _Them_ , he understands. They have stood the test of time.

But Éowyn and Faramir? Samwise Gamgee and Rosie Cotton? Éothain and Eadnignes? How will they know what they feel is no simple fleeting fancy? How will he know when one of his advisor's daughters assuredly catches his interest for a moment? Will they just take the leap and hope for the best? That does not seem logical to Éomer. He is a man of honour. Should he ever marry, his vows would be sacred and he would be honour bound by them. But what if he does not love her? Or she does not love him? Or they grow weary of one another?

That is why Éomer does not want to marry at the moment, and he desperately hopes his advisors will heed his wish; to leave him be, to give him proper time to adjust to being King – a right and just King. And then, maybe he will have grown into the idea of having a wife, someone to be by his side until either one of their death. He has not yet met a woman that would fit those shoes, and he will not settle for less, no matter what his advisors say.

His attention returns to the four Hobbits only to realise they are still discussing the chances of Sam ever marrying this Rosie Cotton. He sighs and looks around for a reason to end this conversation without outright saying he does not want to hear anything about marriage for the remainder of his stay in Gondor. Gratefully, he spots his friend across the room.

"I am sorry my friends, but I must take my leave. I see Prince Imrahil and I wish to converse with him. Samwise?" He puts his hand on the Hobbit's shoulder squeezing gently. "Good luck on your venture to win Rosie Cotton's heart." Éomer adds with a smile before rising to his feet. He may not wish to saddle himself with a wife at the moment, but if that is what Sam wants, then Éomer truly hopes the Hobbit gets the courage to ask that girl to marry him. And that she says yes, of course.

He nods to the group before walking in the direction he saw Imrahil, but he is no longer where he was standing just moments before. Having lost sight of him, he makes a beeline to the casks of mead to replenish his pint and returns to the floor in search of the Swan Prince... until he notices Éothain inspecting the crowd, undoubtedly looking for him. Éomer crouches down a little, trying his best to avoid being seen by his long-time friend. In doing so, and keeping his eyes on where he knows Éothain to be, he does not see the young woman until he turns around in an effort to sneak out the Hall and slams squarely into her, spilling his pint all over the two of them.

He automatically grabs a hold of her right arm to stop her from toppling over. Obviously not expecting the collision, her feet are hilariously getting tangled in the blue flurry that is her frock. In an effort to remain upright, she puts a left hand on his arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I was not look–" She starts only to stop abruptly when her eyes meet his.

They both stand there, frozen for a moment in time, neither moving nor speaking. Everything around them seems to slow down to a full stop as if they just paused on life. They are not in a Great Hall filled with people surrounding them; they are alone in this stationary environment. A moment. An instant. A slice in time. That is where they stand; on a fragment of time. To both Éomer and Lothíriel, it seems to last a lifetime. But it is only a moment. As time seems to restart slowly, without moving their eyes, they notice little things: His golden hair, so unusual in these lands; Her height, taller than any other woman he has ever encountered; His shoulders, broader than she ever thought possible; Her neck, so long and slim he could easily curl his fingers around it; His brows, a darker shade than his hair and beard; Her nose, straight and narrow...

They notice it all. As time moves faster, the background moves forward. They are back in the Great Hall of Feasts surrounded by people, celebrating the coronation of a King, his wedding, four Hobbits, and the ride of the Rohirrims. The interlude is over with a blink of an eye.

"Éomer! My friend." Éomer distantly registers that the person he has been looking for the entire evening is currently standing right next to him. "I see you have met my daughter, Lothíriel."

* * *

 **It has been brought to my attention by a friend who has only seen the movies that some things in this chapter can be confusing. All right then, I will no longer assume that everyone has read the books or are somewhat familiar with them, so I will give some information that could help understand where I am going with this story.**

 **Imrahil (who was completely ignored in the movies) is the prince of Dol Amroth (a city by the sea in the Kingdom of Gondor) and in _The Return of the King_ during the _Battle of the Pelennor Fields_ he ventures outside of Minas Tirith with his Knights to help the Rohirrim in defence of the City. While Faramir was wounded and healing, Aragorn gave the position of Steward to Imrahil. Then, there was the _Last Debate_ in which it was decided that everybody should go dance the Hula like Timon and Pumbaa in front of Sauron. Contrary to the movies, Legolas, Gimli, Merry and Pippin were not in attendance; they were all by Merry's bedside because he was gravely injured when he stabbed the Witch-king of Angmar. In truth, the _Last Debate of the Captains of the West_ was a meeting held by Aragorn, Gandalf, Éomer, a few Gondorian lords here and there, probably Elladan and Elrohir (Elrond's sons) AND IMRAHIL. Then, leaving injured Merry behind, they all left to fight the _Battle of Morannon_ (where the Black Gate is) and Pippin actually rocked and killed a freaking Troll.**

 **Taking all of that into consideration, I will probably mix both movies and books together to create one mash up of the two, because it is really hard to just stick to one storytelling, for both are epic in their own rights. But, one thing that is for sure, Imrahil is important in this story.**

 **And now back to him... He has an unnamed wife (which I named Uileth) and three sons and a daughter:  
** **\- Elphir (32 years old) who is married to an unnamed woman (Aradel in this case) with whom he has a son named Alphros (2 years old)  
** **\- Erchirion (29 years old)  
** **\- Amrothos (25 years old)  
** **\- Lothíriel (20 years old)  
** **Imrahil (64 years old), had two older sisters:  
** **\- Ivriniel, the eldest who is still alive and kicking at 72 years old  
** **\- Finduilas, who was once the wife of Denethor and mother to Boromir and Faramir (36 years old)**

 **By the way, those are their actual ages as of the end of the War of the Ring T.A. 3019. And they all have D** **ú** **nedain blood in their veins, so they don't really grow old. They retain their strength and youthfulness longer than normal men and they also tend to live longer, depending on how pure and dominant their bloodline is. I mean, Faramir actually dies at 120 years old. And let's not talk about Aragorn!**

 **SPOILER ALERT: well, _obviously_... if you don't know that tidbit of information yet, I truly believe you have been living under a rock or you have _just_ been initiated to the amazing world created by Tolkien (in such a case, _Le nathlam h_** ** _í_** **, and SKIP THIS** **). But... here it goes. Lothíriel ends up marrying our favourite Horse-Lord. *cue to gasps* I know, shocking isn't it! Anyways, not much is actually written or known about these two. We know that Lothíriel and Éomer (who is 28 years old by the way) tied the knot somewhere between T.A. 3021 and F.A. 2. So... we will see what I shall do with that very vague and confounding information.**

 **For those who are really not that well informed about the world of Middle Earth and its timeline, T.A. and F.A. stand for the Third Age and the Fourth Age. The Third Age started with the first downfall of Sauron with Isildur cutting off his finger and stealing his favouring piece of jewellery. It ends with the departure of the White Ship boarded by Frodo, and Galadriel, Elrond and Gandalf (all bearers of the three elven rings). The Fourth Age starts after that. Oh, and my story starts on the first of May T.A. 3019.**

 **So, here it is. I didn't think I needed to do this but apparently I did. Yes, I'm looking at you C.C. If anything else is unclear, don't hesitate to ask.**


	2. Chapter 2

**carly114: I appreciate your review and I took what you said as valid criticism. I have to admit I don't normally write in third person. So I have decided that this should be a very good exercise for me to write the entire story in third person (both point of views). So I went back, edited the first chapter and here we are. So thank you for reading, and I will try my best at this.**

 **A: Wow, you seem excited. I'm excited for this new chapter, so hopefully you are too.**

 **angelic-bitch and Boramir: That's appreciated and I hope this story is going to turn out great as a whole. Thank you for reading and reviewing.**

 **Shetan20: Employable? Accessible? Or Enjoyable? I'm not sure I get your meaning, but thank you for reading.**

* * *

 **I suddenly had a burst of inspiration and I felt the need to sit down and continue both my Tolkien stories. I blame this on the fact that I started reading _The Children of Húrin._ It is so good by the way. I strongly recommend it to those who haven't read it yet.**

 **Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

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Chapter Two

Éomer blinks a few times while his mind registers what just happened. _Daughter?_ Éomer knew that Imrahil had a daughter of course; she had come up in conversations once or twice. The Prince of Dol Amroth never fails to talk to death anyone with a listening ear and he always finds time to speak about his family. It is obvious to Éomer that Imrahil is a genuinely good man who is lucky enough to have found love in his wife and pride in his children. The man can barely hold his mouth shut when it comes to them. Éomer met his three sons in battle and with adrenaline pumping and being all close in age, they got along quite well. He was introduced to their mother shortly after returning from the Black Gate. Éomer heard talks of Lothíriel here and there, from her brothers and parents, and surprisingly from his sister Éowyn who befriended her instantaneously upon meeting her. Yet, in the weeks they have been in Minas Tirith, he has never encountered her before now.

And to say he was taken by surprise is an understatement. Éomer was expecting a younger version of lady Uileth: small, pale skin, green eyes, round face, light brown hair neatly pulled back in an intricate coiffure. But the young woman before him clearly takes more after her father than she does her mother. For one, Éomer has never met a woman as tall as she. The top of her head reaches above his chin and that is unprecedented considering his own height of six foot and a half. Her raven hair is pulled back in an elaborate mess of braids sitting atop her head, but some strands simply refuse to remain in place and fall down around her angular face. In an attempt to tidy her head, she keeps pulling it back behind her ears. Furthermore, a woman of her station is usually uncommonly pale since they are not bound to work outdoors. Even Éowyn who is always hands-on ready to help the people has always retained such paleness. Lothíriel's tanned skin, however, betrays her reluctance to remain indoors for too long. Her light eyes shine bright against her golden skin. She has the same grey eyes that so many here in Gondor have, Éomer realises. The very same ones Aragorn has. She strikes a typical figure of a true Dúnedan, what with her coloring and her height.

All of those traits are surprising to Éomer, true. But what is truly astonishing in this is his reaction to the sight of Prince Imrahil's youngest child. Never before has he behaved in such a way at the sight of a woman, or anyone for that matter. Over the years, he has met his fair share of beautiful and charming people and was not left unaffected, yet none had dazzled him so. In that moment when they collided, he lost any control he had over his body and his mind. All he could see was her. And that frightens him, that she could hold such power over him.

Éomer blinks once again and the spell breaks when he feels a firm hand on him. He tenses the moment he realises that the hand slightly squeezing his right shoulder belongs to Prince Imrahil, the father of the woman he was intently staring at only now. The new King appears to be the first one to recover from the shaking encounter as he escapes Lothíriel's gaze and lower his eyes to see he is still holder her arm from when he attempted to keep her upright. Éomer immediately drops her arm as if it were on fire, when in reality he knows the burning sensation he feels does not come from the young princess herself. No. It comes from the drilling glare of her father.

Gulping, Éomer haltingly shifts his head to the right and meets his friend's gaze straight on. The corners of Imrahil lips are pulled a little in a polite smile that is rendered ineffective by the steel in his eyes. Slowly, the Prince arches one dark eyebrow deliberately, silently asking for an explanation. In such a moment, it does not matter if the older man likes and respects the new King of Rohan or not. Éomer is simply too close to Lothíriel for her father's liking. And Éomer has no idea how long the two of them have been ogling at each other before the Prince interrupted them. He is extremely uncomfortable under the Prince's stare, and as such all he can do is scratch the back of his neck with his newly reacquired hand. Imrahil simply continues to watch the poor unfortunate Rohirrim who has just started fidgeting. Éomer clears his throat, unsure of what to say but willing to say about anything to evade the awkwardness of the situation.

Suddenly, Lothíriel seems to realise that her father is standing right there looking at the two of them like a hawk.

"Adar." She greets her father by raising herself on her toes to kiss his cheek.

The glare in Imrahil's eyes lessens as his lips turn into a contented smile. One hand is still gripping Éomer's shoulder while the other comes to rest on the Princess' shoulder blades.

"You are enjoying the festivities, i iell dail nîn?"

Éomer learned Sindarin during his youth like all royal children of Rohan; however he forgot most of his lessons which were imposed on him by his grandmother. Yet, he remembers enough of the language to know what Prince Imrahil just said upon greeting his youngest child. _My beautiful daughter._ And indeed she is, Éomer cannot help himself but think. Still, he ends his train of thought as Imrahil is still intently looking at him, having barely glanced at his daughter to greet her.

Upon hearing the term of endearment, Lothíriel's blinding smile unveils a set of straight white teeth, if only for the small gap between her two front teeth.

"How could I not? This is a monumental moment in our history. We have many things to celebrate. A King sits on the throne of Gondor after almost a thousand years; Not only do we have a King, we have a new Queen as well; Sauron is finally defeated." Lothíriel acts as if she hadn't just been gawking at Éomer, and the young man does not know if he should feel insulted at being passed over so quickly or impressed by how easily she is able to recover from their shared moment. After all, he is still shaken by what happened between the two of them and is unwilling – and unable – to explain himself to Imrahil. But no matter, she effortlessly steals the attention of her father and instantaneously appeases him.

"Indeed." Imrahil simply says in response.

"Last but not least, tonight we give our infinite gratitude to the Rohirrim." Éomer startles at her words, and turns to see that she is already staring at him. "Without you and your men, Gondor would not have prevailed on that fateful day."

This is the first time she acknowledges his presence since the arrival of Imrahil and he is uncertain if he is able to form an appropriate response without giving away any of his confusing feelings. Éomer's manners seem to have eluded him as he appears to be unable to think clearly or act properly. It is all very disconcerting. The Prince saves him the trouble of answering when he starts chuckling lightly.

"Uh-huh. And you are doing so by... pouring wine down your dress – is this a new custom you young people abide by that I am unaware of?" Imrahil teases and in doing so, Éomer notices that the young Princess is indeed wearing a stained dress. Not only is it discoloured by wine, it is also drenched by Éomer's mead most assuredly.

"A stumbling idiot spilled their drink all over me because they are too weak to handle their liquor." Lothíriel adds with mirth in her eyes as she glances back at the King of Rohan.

Éomer almost groans out loud at the comment. By the looks of it, not only did he empty the content of his pint on her, but he apparently made her spill her own glass as well. Yet, she does not seem offended at all by the fact that he had just ruined her dress. And, he may have been a stumbling idiot but to be fair he was trying to be sneaky and escape his friend. He was not really looking at where he was going. And she was the one struggling to remain upright after he'd slammed into her. Granted, anyone would struggle to do so should they collide with him; it has nothing to do with grace or alcohol. _Too weak to handle their liquor._ Please. He barely had anything to drink since the casks started rolling. It would take many more pints to affect the Rohirrim. Still, Éomer should apologize nonetheless.

"I'm sorry..." Éomer starts, his first two words spoken since he encountered the Princess. And apparently, that is all he is able to say. Not only has she turned his brain to mush she has also taken his vocabulary away and left him unable to utter more than the simplest of apologies.

"I did not mean you." Lothíriel grins and shakes her head. "My dress was already ruined by another stumbling drunk idiot outside. What's one more spill?"

"Daughter, you just called the King of Rohan an idiot, you know."

"Did I?"

Strangely enough, it is not the _idiot_ part that affects Éomer the most, but to be called _drunk_. Well, maybe he appears so. After all, he did crash into her for no obvious reason; he probably appears slow of mind with all his staring; and he was barely able to mumble two words in her presence. Come to think of it, he can see why she would think him intoxicated. It is better if they both think him drunk rather than for Imrahil to discover that his daughter just leaves Éomer breathless.

"Where are Faramir and Lady Éowyn? Were they not with you?" Imrahil asks his daughter conversationally, seemingly forgetting that not three minutes ago he was ready to glare a whole in Éomer's skull.

"Oh, they went dancing." She answers pointing to a couple moving in perfect harmony amongst the many dancers. Éomer smiles at the pair. He so longed for his sister to find a little piece of happiness, she deserves it after all. In the last few years, she spent too much time enclosed in darkness, such was their world. The sight of her laughing is long overdue.

"And no one asked you? Now, that will not do." Imrahil chides as he squeezes Éomer's shoulder, reminding the young man that the Prince had not let go of him, not even once, during their conversation. It would seem that not all is forgotten after all. "How about Éomer here?"

Upon hearing those words, the man of Rohan freezes on the spot once more. Contrary to before, time does not slow down to a complete stop; it accelerates to unimaginable speed and Éomer must admit, he is starting to feel rather sick. Nothing better to prove that he is indeed drunk, and not infatuated, than vomiting in front of a Lady and her father.

"Oh." Lothíriel gasps as she takes a step back. "I- I would not like to impose. I p-promised Erchirion my first dance anyway. I- I should probably g-go and find him."

Éomer stares at the retreating woman, his brows frowned in question at her sudden change in attitude at the simple mention of a dance with him. He is hypocrite because he knows he stiffened to the point of petrifaction when Imrahil suggested him as a dance partner. Still, he cannot help but wonder why she went from a charming unaffected conversationalist to a stammering shy introvert.

He notices the little things. How her cheeks unquestionably become redder by the minute with a blush that spreads all the way down beneath the top hem of her dress. How her hands nervously play with a loose strand of her hair – nervously, because her hands are visibly shaking. How she stumbles lightly on her dress as she continues to walk backward, and directs a glare at her frock. Honestly, she should not wear such a long skirt if she is unable to walk properly in it. It will be her demise, Éomer thinks. He would not be surprised if she ends up breaking her neck falling down a flight of stairs because she tripped over her own two feet.

All of these signs show how uncomfortable she is right then and there; because her father proposed she dances with Éomer. As she continues to move away, she lowly mumbles an excuse for leaving Éomer and her father, something about getting herself a new drink before finding her brother. She turns around on her heels and makes to walk away with haste but is stopped by her father.

"Lothíriel. Manners."

Rooted on her feet at her father's call, she seems to remember the propriety of the situation at hand; rules of conventional behaviour that Éomer had all forgotten the second her met her. She turns back around to face him.

"Forgive my shortness toward you, Éomer King. It was an honour to make your acquaintance." Lothíriel bows slightly without ever meeting his gaze. She does not wait for an answer from him. The second she stands to her full height she dashes away from them and into the crowd.

Well, that was certainly interesting.

The hand on his shoulder reminds the King that the young runaway Lady just left him with her father. _Oh, Éomer is dead._ How can he possibly give an explanation for what happened that would satisfy Imrahil? Éomer is still looking for what to say to his friend, obviously having been caught red handed ogling the man's daughter, although he could not explain his actions. Anxious, he looks to his right, about ready to form an apology when he catches the look on Imrahil's face. Long gone is the glare and angry frown. It is all replaced by a jubilant smirk. Imrahil is a second away from splitting his face in two; that is how wide his smile currently is. The older man starts chuckling just as Éomer groans in agony.

"Huh, not you too."

"What?" Imrahil asks innocently, his voice filled with amusement.

"Cease with that look." Éomer points an annoyed finger at his friend. To think he believed Imrahil to be crossed with him. Of course, the man would be elated to find that Éomer had lost his nerve in front of a woman; it matters little that the woman in question happens to be his daughter.

"What look?" Imrahil can barely get out two words without laughing out right in his face.

"I am not getting married." It really does seem like the universe is plotting against Éomer. Nowhere can he go without someone shoving the idea of marriage in his face. In his attempt to escape that talk with Éothain, he slams into the first woman to ever render him speechless and ends up discussing such topic with her own father.

"I never said you were. But it is funny you would bring that up."

"Will you stop?" Éomer almost growls. Imrahil may not have outright said it, but the idea was clearly in his mind, what with that smirk and delighted look in his eyes – which annoys Éomer to no end. "You are her father, you are supposed to be warding me off, not grinning at me like a buffoon."

"But you looked so–"

"Stop." Éomer interrupts, more than a little disturbed by the situation.

 _Unbelievable_ , he thinks. Imrahil is the only man Éomer knows who will openly laugh and rejoice at having his daughter goggled at. _Unbelievable._ Already Éomer is unsettled by his own powerless reaction to the young woman; Imrahil's giggly attitude towards him is not helping.

But why did he even react that way? Éomer does not understand. Yes, the Princess of Dol Amroth is beautiful in her own rights, but she is not the most gorgeous being in Middle-Earth. In this room alone there are greater beauties – the elven Queen Arwen Undómiel being one of them. Yet, he remains unaffected by them all. It is _her_ who unnerves him so. Why? He does not know her. He knows she must have some redeeming qualities for Éowyn to have befriended her so easily. But aside from that... Why would he loose all capacity at the mere sight of her?

"I do not know what happened." Éomer finally mutters, not looking at his friend, the sire of his most recent torment.

"Ah, to be young and so..." Imrahil, wise with all his hard-earned knowledge over the years, says "stupid."

"Pardon me?" Éomer asks, slightly offended. This just keeps getting better and better.

"Perhaps not the right word. Ignorant, then? Naive?" Éomer shrugs Imrahil's hand away from his shoulder. "Come now, my boy. Certainly you know this does not happen to everyone. Do not be a fool. It would be ludicrous to resist such things."

"I'm leaving." The King announces with a roll of his eyes, not liking his friend's line of thought at all. He starts walking away. After all, was that not his goal when he tried to go unnoticed by Éothain? He wanted to escape these halls to make sure he did not need to have this conversation.

"Éomer! Wait a–" Imrahil starts before being interrupted.

"I'm leaving."

"Will you jus–" Imrahil tries once more, but Éomer is already a few steps away.

"I'm gone!" The King says in a singing voice, not even looking behind to look at his friend as he departs the room.

"Argh... that boy." Imrahil shakes his head as he stares at the back of the King's head.

– xXx –

Lothíriel shakes her head when she finally finds her brother animatedly talking with a small group of Rohirrim. Why is she not surprised? Erchirion has always been the most curious of her brothers. Although they have all been raised to become formidable warrior, they each have their own field of expertise. When the time comes, Elphir has been groomed since infancy to take over as leader of Dol Amroth; Amrothos is happier sailing at sea; and Erchirion wishes to know everything about everyone everywhere. He has an unparalleled thirst for knowledge and right now, he is sitting on a gold mine. After all, it is not every day that so many Rohirrim grace these halls with their presence.

She walks toward the group composed of four horse-lords and one prince of Dol Amroth. Erchirion's back is to her so he does not see Lothíriel's approach. One man of Rohan notices her though. He seems to realise that she knows Erchirion and simply winks her way before turning his attention back on the speaking Gondorian. Lothíriel slides behind her brother and encircles her arms around his waist and squeezes with all her might. Erchirion yelps in fright, startled by the unsuspected arms surrounding him. Lothíriel cannot help but giggle at the high cry he always produces whenever she is able to frighten him. She presses the front of her head against his back, snorting as she tries to stop herself from laughing outright at her brother.

"Ha, do not scare me so, gin raug! I will hurt you one day." Erchirion exclaims. He grabs one of her hand in his and squeezes in warning.

"And father will kill you." Lothíriel snorts even louder as she pokes his ribs with her free hand. Erchirion gently pulls her from behind his back so she stands right next to him, his arm around her shoulders.

"Yes well, it will be your fault. Remember that the next time you want to scare me. My demise will be on your conscience." He says with a kiss to her temple.

"Please. As if I would let anyone hurt you." Lothíriel rolls her eyes at his comment.

"Please." Erchirion repeats in the same tone. "You can barely lift Alphros without breaking your arm."

Lothíriel turns to look at her brother, affronted by the jab. _Is he calling her weak?_ She knows she is no Shieldmaiden like Éowyn but now Erchirion is just exaggerating, because of the one time she had to put Alphros down to give her arms a break. "What? He is getting big!"

"He is a two year-old."

Lothíriel blinks and opens her mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. In truth, she does not know what to add to that, aside from her meek attempt to justify herself. "He is big for two years of age."

"Excuses, excuses." Erchirion chuckles as he shakes her shoulder a little. He likes to tease his sister just like she enjoys scaring him to death. None of them mean any harm.

The Princess of Dol Amroth just sends a glare his way, before crossing her arms over her chest. A little annoyed by her brother, she turns her eyes to the group before her. All four of them bear the striking features of men of Rohan. They have long blond wild hair and fuller beards than is considered acceptable for any self-respecting Gondorian. They are shorter too; only one of the men before Lothíriel is actually as tall as her. But what they lack in height, they make up in width.

"And who might you be, my Lady?" The one who appears to be the oldest of the lot asks, bowing his head a little.

"My sister, the little she-demon that she is."

The Rohirrim's eyes widen upon hearing Erchirion call his sister a _demon._ It is after all quite a strong moniker to use when referring to a beloved sister. But Lothíriel grew up on being called much worse by her brothers because, truth be told, she was a terror as a child. Now, she is much more displeased by the other adjective he used to describe her.

"Who are you calling little?" She asks as she distances herself from her brother, raising herself to her full height to stare straight into his eyes.

Erchirion is the shortest of all three brothers, being no more than two inches taller than his sister. He stares at her for a moment, uncertain of what he should say in response.

"Well, you used to be." He simply chooses to state with a shrug of his shoulders. Lothíriel just rolls her eyes at him, before jabbing her elbow in his ribs. They are being rude and it is about time that her brother makes the introductions lest she does it herself.

"Lothíriel, allow me to introduce you to our friends here." Erchirion reaches forward and claps his hand on the oldest one's shoulder before pointing to the other ones. "This is Galan, Leof, Éothain and Sceotend."

"A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure." She answers politely with a slight nod of her head to each of them.

"I see you have met our King." The one who saw Lothíriel approach earlier, Éothain is his name, says with a glint of mirth in his eyes.

Of all the things to hear upon meeting four horse-lords, that is far from what Lothíriel expected. _How did he know?_ He must have seen the fiasco that was their first meeting. She can only hope that Éothain did not notice how she completely lost function over herself at the mere touch of the King's hand. Hopefully, her father did not notice either."

"Yes." She acquiesces, bringing a hand to push a strand of hair behind her ear.

"When did you meet Éomer?" Erchirion asks.

"Just now." Lothíriel says, fixing a point on the ground, unwilling to look at her brother for fear he might discern the redness on her cheek for what it truly is: a blush.

"It seemed like quite the encounter." Éothain adds, barely able to contain his laugh. The Princess' eyes leave its spot on the ground and focus a glare upon the man of Rohan who simply smirks in response.

"What? Why?" Erchirion frowns and looks down at his sister.

"Nothing." Lothíriel mumbles before she sees her brother getting slightly agitated by her answer, probably expecting a horrible tale. "Nothing, truly. I was just... not looking where I was going and slammed straight into him."

There is a silent moment in the group when Lothíriel dares to hope that they might not have heard what she said, but then all five men burst out laughing. Éothain is leaning on Leof, trying to catch his breath while his friend his patting his back. Sceotend is bent over forward with his hands on his knees while Galan leans backward his head facing the sky. Erchirion is at least trying to be polite and tries to hide his laughs behind his hand. He fails miserably. When they finally stop laughing at her expense, Éothain is wiping away at his eyes, having clearly cried from the ordeal.

"That explains the wine." Leof chuckles lightly as he points at her dress. Lothíriel looks down, already knowing she looks a mess.

"Why, yes. But someone else outside the halls beat him to it."

They cannot help themselves but guffaw at that comment. Lothíriel has to admit, the situation is rather funny, and she shakes her head before letting a chuckle escape her lips.

"Oh Lothíriel." Erchirion says, grabbing her chin in his fingers. "Will grace ever be bestowed upon you? Or will you forevermore waddle like a baby duck?"

That earns him another glare, as she shrugs his hand away from her face. "Thank you, brother. Know that I will no longer save you should doom befall you."

Erchirion takes a step backward and dramatically slams his hand against his chest over his heart. He starts groaning as if his sister had just mortally wounded him. She rolls her eyes at the display. He bends his knees as if he is about to crumble to the ground, only to spring back up to his full height. He tilts his head to the side and looks at his sister.

"Anyways, what do you want?"

Lothíriel just bats her eyelashes as she widens her stare into big doe eyes. She looks at her brother with a cute little smile on her lips. Her hands come up underneath her chin as she presents the perfect image of a sweet princess.

"Huh." He groans, knowing exactly what his little sister wants. "You want to dance?"

"Thank you." She sings and grabs Erchirion's hand. She is already leading him away when she turns her head to the four Rohirrim. "I will bring him back to you shortly."

"You can keep him. He talks too much!" Éothain says with a laugh.

"It runs in the family I'm afraid." Lothíriel responds with a smirk and almost skips away with her brother in tow.

Erchirion has always been her favourite dance partner. Elphir does not particularly like to dance, so on such occasions he only ever dances with his wife. Amrothos is just awfully terrible at it; he could actually maim someone involuntarily. A few years ago, his family banned him from ever dancing again in their vicinity. As for Imrahil, he is of mind that dancing is for the young, although Lothíriel has caught him once or twice dancing with her mother back in Dol Amroth. And that is why Erchirion is the one saddled with the chore of dancing with the young Princess. Not that he ever complains. He actually likes to dance, and Lothíriel is phenomenal at it.

After two dances, Erchirion extracts himself from his sister's grasp, leaving her with Faramir before returning to his place alongside the four Rohirrim.

"If you so wanted to dance, you did not have to disturb your brother. You could have come to me." Faramir says as he points toward Erchirion who is already deep in a conversation with the men she just met.

"I promised him my first dance." Lothíriel says, perpetuating the white lie. Should her father inquire about her hasty escape from before, at least now people can corroborate her story. There is no way she will willingly tell her father that she was actually afraid of dancing with the King of Rohan, and more so afraid of what she might have done had she found her way back in his hands.

He was unexpected to say the least. Tall, muscular, impressive, handsome, and just not what she expected. She expected a man like any other Rohirrim, like Éothain or Leof: tanned skin hidden under a thick beard, blue eyes, long unkempt blond hair, muscles, and a certain wilderness to their character – something quite different from the ever proper society of Gondor. And Éomer is all that. But when he took hold of her arm, Lothíriel got the feeling that he is so much more than just that.

She is still quite shaken by her encounter with the new King of Rohan. She does not truly know what happened between the two of them. But she knows that, had her father not interrupted she would have surely done something stupid, like blurt out how handsome she thought Éomer was. Lothíriel is usually not one to pay attention to such things – knowing full well that what is inside someone's heart matters much more than flesh and skin – but she is certain she has never seen a more attractive man in her life. It is alarming how she only noticed her father when Éomer let go of her arm. The only way she can explain it, is that the King's hand took a hold of her whole being that she was unable, or unwilling, to escape.

She sighs and sees Éowyn dancing with one very happy Meriadoc Brandybuck. Lothíriel was told that the two bonded when they both rode together to the Battle of the Pelennor Fields unbeknownst to King Théoden, and Éomer for that matter. The Shieldmaiden easily follows each step the Hobbit makes and adapts certain moves so that the dance flows effortlessly despite their height difference. They make quite the pair with their jovial attitude and people stop to stare at them. Yet, neither have a care about the gossips of people. They simply wish to enjoy this moment between friends.

Being alone with Faramir, Lothíriel sees an opportunity to tease her cousin about a subject she still finds hilarious. "Cousin, I have to admit, I now understand why you were scared of Éomer."

Faramir's eyes widen as he turns his head to look at his young cousin. "Oh, really?"

Lothíriel nods her head absently.

"So you have met him, then?"

"He is not like the other Rohirrim." Lothíriel finally says to her cousin. "He is a giant. He barely fits through the threshold. Aren't the men of Rohan supposed to be shorter than us?"

Faramir snorts at his cousin's question. "Well, yes as you may have noticed. But, you are aware that he has Dúnedain blood in his veins, do you not?"

"What?" Lothíriel asks quite shocked by the statement. "Since when?"

"His foremother was Gondorian. Morwen, she married King Thengel. How do you not know this?"

"It must have slipped my mind in between diplomatic lessons." Lothíriel mumbles as she thinks about it, but she cannot recall anything about a certain Morwen of Gondor. She knows who King Thengel was, but completely forgot everything about his wife it would seem. Well that would certainly explain his height. His width must come from his father's side. All in all, Éomer strikes an impressive figure with both attributes inherent to each race of Men.

"Well, now that you have met the man, don't you dare mock me when I fear for my life when my future brother-in-law threatens me." Faramir frowns at Lothíriel before he takes a gulp of his drink.

"Last you told me, he didn't threaten your life," the young woman smirks as she looks at her cousin from the corner of her eye. "Just your manhood."

Faramir chokes on his drink and starts coughing. The woman next to him just laughs at his reaction before clapping his back in an attempt to help him breathe better.

"Lothíriel. I swear, I pity the man who takes you to bed."

She eyes her cousin before arching an eyebrow. "Do you? Really?"

"You have no shame!" Faramir gently pushes her arm as if to reprimand her. She just laughs harder. "If your father heard you speak such way..."

Well... she is about ninety-five percent certain that he saw her stare longingly at the King. And he did nothing. Oh, come to think of it, it probably was not a good idea to leave the King alone with her father. Éomer was probably getting roasted at this very moment.

Éowyn chooses this moment to reappear from her dance with the Hobbit. "And what is so funny?"

"My cousin is a vixen." Faramir says, succeeding in drinking from his cup without choking this time.

"Really?" Éowyn's both eyebrows raise up in surprise. After all, Gondor is much more reserved and prude compared to the wild life of Rohan.

"Hardly." Lothíriel giggles. "Anyhow, I am exhausted. I will retire for the night."

"So soon?" Éowyn wines, clearly not ready for the night to end.

"Soon? My dear, the sunrise is but a few hours away. It is dreadfully late, and I, for one am going to bed. Enjoy the rest of the night for me."

Lothíriel kisses both Éowyn's cheeks and then moves to Faramir who lands a kiss on the top of her head before the Princess walks away with a wave of her hand and wishes of good night.

* * *

 **So I take whatever I can from known texts and archives but Sindarin is not an exact science. So many things remain unknown about this beautiful language, not all words have a translation. It is a fictive language and unfortunately, Tolkien is no longer here to perfect it. When absolutely necessary, I will write things that are not a 100% foolproof, but I do a lot of research online like on** _ **,**_ **and books such as** _ **A Gateway to Sindarin**_ **and** _ **The Writing of Middle Earth.**_ **That being said, I am bound to make some mistakes. If you catch one, then tell me; I will gladly rectify it.**

 **-Adar : father**

 **-i iell dail nîn : my beautiful (lovely) daughter**

 **-gin raug : you demon**


End file.
